I’ve started from the bottom,
In the midst of a dense fog.
I can see nothing,
But I know they’re there:
The other men who climb.
I hate them all;
They are each stronger and better than me.
Curse my slow pace!
The others will have reached the summit already,
Leaving no woman for me.
But it is what I deserve.
I must be better,
I must climb faster,
I must overtake them.

I harness my anger and my loneliness,
And burst through the layer of fog.
The sun shines here,
Illuminating the mountainside,
With the warm light of hope;
But now I am frozen in shock.
Around me I see not only men,
But women as well.
I am nowhere near the summit,
Yet here they are.
A flash of thought,
And I place myself on guard thinking,
These must be wicked women,
Who were cast from the summit.
Maneaters,
But wait, why are they climbing as well?

A woman appears from the fog near me,
Panicking, I nearly lose my grip.
She has a similar reaction,
Undoubtedly thinking like I did;
That I was there to keep her from her goodness.
Turning quickly away, I continued to climb,
Looking back to her occasionally.
The look on her face revealed her confusion,
Struggling with the exact same questions I was.
I spoke, “What is at the top of this mountain?”
Alarmed, she answered me slowly, “A faithful husband.”
“No,” I said, “it’s a loving wife.”
She looked at me with wide eyes.
That’s when we both realized,
Neither of us had any idea what prize or revelation,
Waited at the top of the mountain.
But maybe we could find out together.